


The Monster of Denerim

by Anchanted_One



Series: The Dragons of our Age, and the Heroes who Walked with Them [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Do not repost on another site without permission, Dragon Age Multiple OCs, Fantasy, Gen, High Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Institutionalised Oppression, Medieval, Medieval Fantasy, Retelling, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 16:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anchanted_One/pseuds/Anchanted_One
Summary: Cira Tabris wakes up in a dank cellar with her Cousin Shianni





	The Monster of Denerim

Cira Tabris thought she groaned as she woke but all sounds were all drowned by a loud, dull hum. The world was black at first, devoid of the slightest sliver of light, but then she could make out the blurry image of a beautiful red-headed elf hovering right in front of her.

_ Shianni. _

Cira couldn’t completely make out what her cousin was saying. She was still so groggy. When she groaned again this time she heard it, when she tried to sit up a blinding pain made itself known on the back of her head. It was so fierce that she felt a strong wave of nausea rolled over her, causing her to throw up all over the dank paved stone floor as Shianni darted out of the way, then patted her gently on the back. Cira heaved a few more times before sitting back down, the taste of bile strong in her mouth. Bile, and the metallic taste of blood.

“Easy, easy. Can you hear me now?”

“Yeah…”

“You usually dodge better than that. You’re gonna be feeling that for a while.”

“What happened…?”

“Short version: Your wedding was on. The Arl’s son crashed the party along with two friends and a dozen guards. He tried to hit me. You got me out of the way, but took the hit instead. Thanks for that by the way. After that, they brought us here. To, uh— ‘wait our turn’ apparently.”

“It’s all coming back now!” Cira moved her head slowly so as not to aggravate the pain. “Who all are here with us?”

“Well...” Shianni sat back and gestured around. “Valora, Nola, Alora, Nala, Rea, and Iona. There were some other women here, elves I didn’t recognize. I think the Arl’s son has a preference.”

Cira snorted weakly. “Iona…” she felt bad for her best friend. She had escaped the carnage at Highever, only to come home to find herself in yet another pickle.

“I’m right here, Cici!” the blonde elf smiled. As always, her poise under pressure was remarkable. It was like the time they had faced a gang of muggers in the street; Complete control. “Don’t you dare go thinking I have the worst luck, or something! We’re not done yet; if there’s one thing I learned in Highever, it’s that tables can turn without warning; even if they don’t, it’s not over til we’re dead. They won’t be back for us for some time. Rest. Recover. You will need your strength.”

And so they rested, huddled in each others’ arms. Time passed—they didn’t know how long. Finally, a guard with a Captain’s collar appeared, leading a dozen others. He began giving his commands in a voice that hissed like a viper. “Alright then, lucky ladies, party’s about to begin! Lord Vaughan wants to start off with a bang. The bottle-girl first, and you four are for later. Quickly now. He wants the bride for last. You seven lads can keep ‘er company for now, but hands off. Feel free to the blonde one though.”

Cira watched helplessly as Shianni and the four unlucky elves followed the guards out the door. The door sounding shut felt like some giant book being closed, and terror rose unchecked.

“You shameless bastards—” she tried to rise but one of the guards firmly grabbed her wrists and immobilized her.

“It’ll be alright Cira,” Iona said, and Cira was shocked to see the older woman still trying to stay calm under the circumstances.

“Iona, no!”

“It’s alright woman!” One of the guards said menacingly as he undid his trousers. “Don’t resist, unlike that girl that knocked him out, you don’t have to suffer.”

Just then there was a knock on the door again. “Err pardon me, but can I also have a go?” A voice called. “I got you boys some rum... Please?”

The five guards chuckled and threw glances at each other. “Well if you’ve got rum then come on in!” One of the guards eagerly moved to the door. The second he opened it, a glowing silver blade emerged from the back of his head. Before his body had hit the floor, the figure wielding the magnificent sword danced forward and swung again twice. The first swing slashed through two necks. The second swing spit a guard’s face in two.   
The figure topped off his performance by hurling a dagger at the man holding Cira.

Just like that, five men were dead. The guard with the exposed manhood uttered a squeak and fell to the floor, wetting himself as he scrambled back. He didn’t even try to reach for his weapon, but Cira was moving to retrieve that dagger.

“Mercy!” He squealed.

“No.” The swordsman said and finished him off.

The last guard, fighting panic, tried to use Iona as a hostage, but the wispy elf had found her opening—she seized something off the floor and tossed it at her would be rapist, shouting, “Oi! Catch!”

The confused man caught it on instinct and screamed when he saw that it was the severed head of his comrade. Cira had plucked the dagger out by now, and sent it to another target; it spun in the air thrice before landing in the last guard’s throat.

“Nicely thrown!” The swordsman said approvingly.

“Lord Ren! You awoke!” Iona laughed, looking giddy with relief.    
Cira was shocked; it  _ was _ him! Torren Cousland! But how could that be? He was so badly hurt! It had been fewer than four days since Iona had turned up with the gravely injured Noble in tow, begging Cyrion for space to let him rest and recover.

“Iona!” The young Lord grinned at her. “I’m glad we arrived in time. Perhaps there’s still hope for the others?”

Cira’s mind struggled to catch up. What was going on? Did a half-dead noble really turn up to rescue her? She looked over him carefully, noting the sickly pallor of his skin despite the gloom, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Though his movements had displayed a fluid ease, the man’s body was still not fully healed. “Pardon me, My Lord, but who’s ‘we’?”

“Your cousin Soris,” Cousland answered her. “Your betrothed, Nelaros, and my Mabari Milo. Come follow, they are waiting down this corridor. Oh, and Miss Tabris, the dagger is for you. Soris says you are a gifted knife fighter. You will need to put those skills to use if you want to save the others—”

As they opened the door to the large hall at the end of the corridor, they heard an angry wet noise and one of the girls, Nola, fell dying choking on her own blood. 

“You bastard!” An angry voice shouted. The sound of footsteps—someone running, sword held high. He struck twice. The guard Captain parried the blows with a disdainful expression, then ran him through. Cira felt a shriek catch in her throat, in a moment that lasted forever. The man who fell was her newly betrothed.

“No! Nelaros!” Another voice, this one she recognized as Soris’. There was an animal snarl and a small bear pounced on one of the guards biting a large chunk out of his neck. No, not a small bear, but a very large dog. A Mabari—the one that Cousland had come in with.

Five guards arrayed themselves around the hound nervously, and the Captain looked up. “Don’t worry boys,” he said, reaching for a spear. “I got him!”

“Oh no you don’t!” Cousland roared. In the blink of an eye he was upon the Captain; his sword had cloven the spear shaft in half like a hot knife through butter. 

The Captain attempted to defend himself, but was far less successful against someone who knew how to wield a sword. His sword was batted aside again and again as Cousland advanced on him, until the Captain tripped and fell, struggling to breathe.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Torren,” Cousland replied. With another swing, he decapitated the Guard Captain. “That was for Nelaros, and that innocent girl you butchered!”

The death of her betrothed’s killer sparked some movement back into Cira’s limbs but she was shaking so hard… she had to trust Cousland and his hound to deal with the remaining guards until she could stop shaking. She crawled forward and cradled Nelaros’ head with one hand, and reaching for the rest of his body with the other. “No, no, no, please no! I’m so sorry! Please let this all be a nightmare!”

* * *

“Please let this all be a nightmare!” Torren’s heart stopped when he heard the elf’s despairing scream. He might have screamed those same words, in that same dashed voice, when his home was taken. His friends, guards, and servants killed. His parents lost. His nephew, and Sister-in-Law lying in a pool of their own blood… the only thing he had from his old life was his faithful hound and the family swords. This elf was supposed to be getting married. He didn’t know if she was looking forward to it or not, but such a disaster would haunt her lifelong.

Tears threatened his vision but he blinked them back. The guards gave him looks of appalled terror. Until one of them spotted something that gave him heart.

“Ha! He’s injured, men!”

Indeed he was. Ren could feel several of his wounds reopen when he fought the Guards—both the ones holding Iona, and the Guard Captain now. He was also weakening. Taking a steadying breath, he reached for a fallen shield. 

“That’s right, chickens. I’m already bleeding. Do you think that evens the odds? Come and say hello to Wrayneburn.”

The men roared. Two of them waddled at him as three others tried to keep Milo back. Ren didn’t wait for them. He skipped forward, crouching so low he could have been running on all fours. He attacked from down low, aiming his sword point at their throats the way a spearman would aim at a rider. The Boar’s Charge, the Form was called.

Then his momentum carried him past these two to the ones trying to attack Milo. Soris was holding the crossbow that Torren had given him, but he was shaking so hard that he didn’t fire. Ren was glad that the poor elf at least had the sense to not fire under the circumstances. 

He killed one of the guards, and Milo tackled another. But before either could turn to the final guard, another combatant joined the fray. Cira was holding the Dagger he had given her, and she leapt onto the guard feet-first, knocking him to the ground. She slashed his jugular twice, and he died with a fountain of blood emerging from his throat.

* * *

  
  


Her eyes were still wet with tears, her lips trembled. But her limbs were firm. She was taking deep breaths, steadying herself.

But she had killed one of these guards. The ones who had watched as Nelaros died. She had felt the man’s blood spraying on her face, watched his eyes lose their life but not their look of pleading fear. She didn’t know why her sorrow was so deep—she had only met Nelaros a half hour before the truncated attempt of a wedding. He had only known her for that long, and he had still come for her. The thought… made her want to weep.   
Not now. Later.

“Nelaros, I’m so sorry!” This was Torren Cousland. There was deep sadness in his eyes too. “I shouldn’t have let him come, but he wouldn’t… Dammit!” Roaring, he kicked the Captain’s corpse, sending it crashing into some nearby weapon racks.

Then he fell to his knees, breathing heavily. It was only then that Cira noticed the blood oozing out of his week-old wounds. 

“Lord Ren!” Iona screamed.

“Cousland!” Cira scrambled towards him. “You idiot! You damned blessed idiot! You shouldn’t even be moving right now, and you have walked into a hostile fortress to rescue people of whom you only know one!”

“Well to be honest,” Cousland coughed. “Rescue is one word for what I’m here for.”

“The other?” Soris asked.

“Delivery boy,” He nodded at the sword that was at Nelaros’ side, indicated the one he himself held. “When Soris told me how good you were, I hoped that you were good enough to save yourself once I got these to you.”

Cira grew numb. “You came here… to give us these swords?  _ Your _ swords? But... They’re  _ priceless _ ! And not just gold, these are some of the only things you have from your old life!”

“What use is a sword,” Cousland asked solemnly. “That doesn’t protect the innocent? Punish the unjust? I cannot use these properly right now—”    
_ Er, what now? Then who was it that killed all these pigs? _

“—so it’s up to you now. I am sorry, Miss Tabris. I cannot help you any further than this. You and Soris take the swords, and take Milo with you. Rescue the others.”

“What about you?” Cira demanded. “After what you’ve done, you think I’ll just leave you to die?”

“I’ll take him,” Iona whispered. “I’ll take him back to your house.”

“See?” Cousland smiled. “I’m in good hands.”

Cira held up the masterfully crafted blade that the Lord had been wielding. She looked at it properly this time, in a better lit room. It was a hand-and-a half blade, with an elongated hilt. The handle was blue. The Pommel held a dark sapphire that could easily be worth several hundred gold sovereigns by itself. The Crossguard was intricately carved in the shape of griffins. The blade was perhaps three feet long, and bright silverite.

The other sword, the one he had given Nelaros, was also the work of a master, though its hilt wasn’t flamboyant like the other one was. The blade was shorter and thinner too, but the light bouncing off the blue metal gave it an almost ethereal aura.

Either sword looked not just expensive, but priceless. The Lord was just offering her the both of them like it was nothing.

“These swords look… distinctive. People might know you had something to do with it, when you come out into the open again.”

“Yes,” Cousland said. “And it’s fine by me; Iona risked her life to pull me out of Highever, your Father gave me a bed when I was in need, I am deeply indebted to you and your family. I am with you all the way here. But if it’s so important to you; then don’t get caught. Don’t get killed. Return the swords to me once you’ve saved your friends. You know where Iona is taking me anyway.”

“You’re daft, Cousland!” Cira laughed giddily.

“Uh… why are you relying on me?” Soris asked. “My nerve failed me once already!”

“I just didn’t want to send her in alone,” Torren said. “You can come back with us if you feel scared. Milo will watch your cousin’s back.”

Soris took a deep breath and shook his head. “No you’re right. I can’t abandon Cira and Shianni.”

Cira was deeply touched. “Thank you. All of you. Don’t worry, I’ll wait till later before I cry.”

Cousland nodded. Expression growing heavy, he gave them one last bit of advice. “Your abduction was a declaration of war; this is now a battlefield; everyone here is an enemy. Harden your hearts, show no mercy to anyone wielding a weapon. Secure any servants and innocents in rooms until you are ready to escape; if they bring in reinforcements before you have left with the women, you are doomed. Keep your faces covered if you can.”

* * *

For the life of her, Cira couldn’t remember exactly what happened over the next two hours. It was all a lifeless haze. A never-ending succession of guards. Men and women, young and old, big and small. It didn’t matter; They all went down.

The sword she wielded, the one Nelaros had briefly held, felt like it had been created just for her hand alone. It was not too large or heavy, allowing her to use the quicker forms her Mother Adaia had taught her. The form that relied on the natural advantage elves had in agility and speed. The sword in one hand, the dagger in the other, she flitted from one guard to the next, parrying their weapons with the sword, using the dagger to stab at the arms and face. Some she finished off herself, some she left to Soris.   
Unlike Nelaros, he had just enough training to hold his own against most guards. After his shock at seeing Nelaros go down, he seemed to have steeled himself; he no longer trembled the slightest, and his eyes had a cold glint that hinted at his resolve.

Neither of them flinched when the humans before them fell to their knees, begging with words and eyes for mercy that they had not shown their kin.

But Milo was the true reason for their survival. The very sight of him drew shrieks of terror that were swallowed up by the impassive stones around them. The hound’s hide was so thick that it was nearly impervious to clumsy, frightened attacks. He had a good instinct for fighting too, flanking his enemies and abruptly switching targets. He seemed to be a good complement to his master’s style of combat. His presence allowed both elves to take quick breaks and even sips of water in between fighting.

Using the ring of keys they had looted from the Captain’s corpse, they locked any non-combatants they found in storerooms and barracks. These were actually relieved to comply, eager to avoid dying. 

And then they reached an ornate set of doors, and both elves sensed that this was it…

“Ready?” Cira asked.

“Ready,” Soris answered. At this point, both of them were too full of adrenaline to need to steady their nerves. The hound growled, ears pressed flat on its skull, ready for killing.

She uncovered her face, opened the door, and walked in. 

“My, my...! What have we here?”

* * *

Vaughan was sitting very naked on the large bed, and his not-nearly-as-naked lackeys crowded around Shianni. Their cousin had been chained to some nightmarish rack, bruises covered every inch of her body, and she had been whipped mercilessly. From the look of Vaughan’s posture, it was obvious he had only just finished violating Shianni—She shook all over, weeping, weeping… but Cira could see some signs of rage in those tears—her cousin hadn’t been broken.

Nevertheless, Cira couldn’t help but snarl furiously! These men… How could they be cut from the same cloth as Cousland?

“Let’s not be too hasty, eh?” Vaughan said. On some level, Cira was impressed by how little fear was in his voice. Unlike the other two, shaking like newborn rabbits behind him. “Kill me, and you ruin more lives than your own. The streets will run red with elven blood. Many will die. Or, you could leave, with a small wedding gift.” he nodded at a large chest beside the wall, open and containing bags of gold, silver and jewels. “A token of my respect. These women will be returned tomorrow.”

Cira felt the glacial cold fury distort her face. She hoped it was a terrible sight, a demonic visage fit to be the last thing scum like these would see on this world.

The two other man-children squealed and one soiled himself, but Vaughan just tensed.

“You are a monster… you have no respect for anyone but yourself. What makes you think I’d trust you to keep your word, even if I were the sort to take bribes from filthy gutter scum like you?”

This stoked a mad fury in his eyes. “Pah! I always regret talking to knife ears!” He leaped onto his feet, reaching for a sword propped up against his bed. “I’ll teach you exactly what respect means, you little rat!”

* * *

Vaughan’s attacks were wild, furious, fast, and strong. Parrying them took all of Cira’s focus, left her bones rattled in their sockets, and her dagger slipped out of her fingers. The man was a monster through and through. No matter—today, so was she! Once she got used to his pattern of attacks, she began attacks of her own.

She and her enemy were nearly deaf to the dying moans of his allies, dispatched by Soris and Milo. Distantly, she heard the dog growl, but not attack, perhaps sensing that this was Cira’s kill alone. And it was.

After weathering Vaughan’s initial mad attack, she grew more confident. She threw more weight into her strikes. And when she saw an opening, she didn’t hold back. With an almighty roar, she brought down her sword on Vaughan’s right arm, taking it clean off.

Vaughan’s cry was more rage and shock than pain or fear. That just wouldn’t do! He needed some of both before he died. But not with one of Cousland’s family swords. As the injured Vaughan staggered and fell onto the bed, Cira seized  _ his _ fallen duelling sword and stabbed at his manhood. The blow cut it in two, and buried the blade deep in his bed.    
_ Now _ the scream sounded right.    
Grunting, she pulled the sword out of the bed and slashed him across the stomach. Death by disembowelment. Slow and painful, like he deserved. Just what he deserved. She didn’t wait to see that moment though. 

She ran to her cousin.

“You came for me!” Shianni sobbed. “You came! Please… Don’t leave me, please!”

“I’m right here, Shianni,” Cira said gently, trying to be soothing though she was fighting tears of her own. 

_ Poor Shianni! _ Cira held her head close to her heart and enfolded her in as comforting a hug as she could. The Mabari was remarkably smart—unprompted, it held up a blanket for Cira to drape around her cousin, then pushed a tub of water—probably heated for Vaughan or one of his cronies.

Shianni continued to weep bitter tears for a long time, and when she was done, Cira helped her into the bath. In the meantime, Soris helped the women who had been led to the next room, where there were more women who had been tortured before Shianni had. The Hound, Milo, kept watch. It occasionally ran off and came back a few minutes later with something in its mouth for the elves; food, or stuff it thought was food. Cira was amused that the dog could be so smart and yet not get that humans, and elves—and probably dwarves too—didn’t eat raw meat.

He also occasionally got some other objects; toys, cutlery, gems and small jingling pouches full of coin, most of which Cira kept to take home. More coin was always desperately needed in the Alienage, and they had already let loose a river of blood, so what the heck?

Once she had massaged Shianni’s many injuries with the hot water, she helped her back into her clothes and called to Soris. “We’re ready to move here!”

“Us too!” he said, leading in a line of disheveled, frightened looking women. Cira’s blood boiled looking at the state of some of them. Oh, how she wished she could revive Vaughan and kill him again a dozen times! 

“You lead,” Soris said. “I’ll bring up the rear guard.”

* * *

**Epilogue**

It was the crack of dawn when they returned to the Alienage. Elder Valendrian and a large group were waiting for them when they arrived.

“Iona told us about Nelaros and Nola… But thank the Maker the rest of you are safe! Has anyone been hurt?”

“Shianni… but these girls as well. They were taken from a village just South.”

“I see. Alarith, can you please see to it that each of these girls is tended to?”

“Of course, Elder.”

“You’d best take all of this too!” Cira held out the loot she thought they could get away with; Some pouches of gold, silver, and precious gems. They could not directly use that wealth openly, not yet. Shianni took them with her. 

Once Alarith had left, Cyrion asked spoke gravely. “Now tell me, what happened?”

“Vaughan and all of his guards who were present are dead. We locked up the servants, but they didn’t see our faces. But it’ll be obvious what happened.”

“Then the Guards could already be on their way here!” Cyrion paled. “They could already be on their way here.”

“Father, please get these swords and the dog back to Lord Cousland. It wouldn’t do if we were caught with them, it’ll only implicate him.”

“Very well, daughter.”

“And Soris,” Cira turned to him. “Go and get washed and changed, quickly.”

“What about you?” Soris asked. Cira didn’t answer. “Cousin, what about you?”

“Just go!”

“Lethallan,” Valendrian said. “Don’t tell me…”

“I will take responsibility. If no one does, there will be a massacre here.”

“How will you convince them that you killed over fifty guards alone?”

“Not alone,” she shook her head. “The witnesses saw two masked elves. I went in with Nelaros, but he didn’t make it out. That is all the rest of the world will learn about what happened.”

“The sacrifice you are making… its magnitude! ” Valendrian’s eyes had grown to twice their normal size. He shivered. “So be it, Lethallan. So be it. You truly are amazing.”


End file.
